, , , , , , , ,

That queer scratchy noise; dead nails on floorboards
while my cat snarled, hissed, and backed away —

For a week we didn’t notice. The wards
were up. We were back; fucking like doomsday

was still nigh (please), grinning as I’d ravish
your mouth; feeling you gag on the chaos

of my flesh while begging me to finish
(please) on your face, rubbing my cock across

your outstretched tongue. Of course something crept in
during our shagged-out acts (please); something drawn

by me licking your bones clean. My cat’s wail.
The thing on the floor. For a week our twin

pleasures burned us clean, until doomsday, spawn
of our pride, what the kids called: “epic fail.”